Of Whispers and Warriors
by Hint of a Melody
Summary: When Ailith Dawn-Sabre, a mysterious Bosmeri woman, carrying a past shrouded in shadows, suddenly crosses paths with a loyal soldier, their lives are twisted into a clutter of confusion and unwanted realizations. With her heart bolted shut with a sturdy lock and key, all that Ralof can do is hunker down and withstand the dark and dangerous reality that he's gotten whisked off into.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Welcome to the first segment of "Of Whispers and Warriors". This is my first go at writing a Skyrim story, and a lot of relentless research and time went into planning some of the events and whatnot, so it'd be ****_unfathomably _****awesome if you could drop a review to let me know what you think so far! On a bit of a side note, this will loosely follow the travels of my Dragonborn, Ailith Dawn-Sabre. (I know it's not super original, but it helps to prevent losing inspiration. I hope that makes sense.) I own her, but nothing from Skyrim or the game itself, sadly. **

**Thanks for reading!**

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_**Prologue**_

* * *

There are known to be Nine Divines that keep watch over Tamriel with eyes that hold resolute wisdom beyond any mortal's years, guiding them, even if they do not realize that they are being driven down a specific path. There are the burly warriors that will be forever remembered throughout time in old songs and heroic tales. There are the cunning thieves that will fall, being branded as a measly good for nothing fool for all eternity. And there are the villagers, farmers, and merchants who will pass into the Void without recognition. Only, before there is a reputation to follow someone like a looming shadow, the person must first be brought into this beautiful, yet unforgiving world.

And that is where our tale begins, with the noble God Arkay deeming it possible for yet another inhabitant of Nirn to be pulled into the wonders of life. This person, he decided, would be Bosmeri, with eyes the shade of reddened flames and a head of unruly hair the color of a setting sun during Midyear. She would have bones as agile as a Pine Thrush, and be blessed with the gift of a quick wit from the day that she was able to utter her first words.

This girl would eventually become known as Ailith.

And now, we dive into the wide and wavering pools of her life, starting within the temperate rain forests of Valenwood during the hundred and sixth year of the fourth era. Just on the outskirts of Silvenar, the ground scarcely scattered with glittering sap from the magical glade that had previously stood there. Through thick patches of mists and fog, you could barely make out the towering, massive tree known as the Falinesti, where sunlight drips through the verdant leaves like liquid gold, and creatures, along with the Wood Elves, heave themselves onto its huge branches from vines and knots in the rugged wood.

A figure, nimble and feminine, steps into the picture, shattering the awe striking image of the giant migratory sapling. Her name was Marawyn, the woman who had given birth to Ailith, raised her, nurtured her. Beside her sat Meldiron, his light hair tousled from the humid breeze that was almost always stirring within the jungle region. This young man was only five years older than his sister, making him merely fifteen, hardly growing accustomed to his toddler phase in Elvish aging. And behind Meldiron was a tall and lean form whose face was a blurred mural of shadows dancing across olive tinted skin, a clouded memory, an anonymous identity in which Ailith could not remember.

His large hand stretched out to cup her small, child-like shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before letting go. A caring smile curled his thin lips, but his eyes were cold and bitter as ice, unforgiving and bemused. They were a color that she could never seem to forget, a vibrant gold, rimmed with an auburn that could easily be compared to fire. She noticed that the fingers of his opposite hand were bundled into a loose fist, and a flash of silver winked from within the cracks of his grip. The man's palm suddenly opened, revealing a glimmering amulet with a vivid ruby drilled into the center. Except, if you looked closely, you could see that it was not just a measly diamond, there seemed to be swirling mists twisting inside of its crimson depths. It was single-handedly the most awe striking item she had ever laid eyes on at the time.

"This is for you, so that you will never forget me," he spoke evenly. His voice was smooth as glass, yet as dark and spine chilling as ebony. He dropped the gift into her anxiously awaiting grasp, the chain pooling like a shining river in her palm.

The pleasant recollection was suddenly whisked away from her, slipping helplessly through her hold as if it was as formless as water. Black was all that she could see now, black darker than night, corroding every corner of her mind until she felt an all consuming heat prodding at her ankles. The dull scenery abruptly lit up, basking everything in a blinding orange. It took her a moment to see that the bright bowels within it were quivering, and it was then that she realized that it was not merely a color, they were flames, licking their vengeful fingers wherever her unlucky eyes chose to wander, turning everything to charred ash. The undeniable sound of swordplay wafted into her ears, the metallic clang of blades making contact, the determined battle cries. Along with those rash noises were the terrifying ones, the ones that caused fear to stir in her stomach, curdle her entrails until there was nothing left but raw, sheer panic.

Screams.

Wails of pure horror, filling the endless void of her thoughts. But then there were the cries of anguish, of pain, of sorrow. Of death.

Ailith felt shaking arms rip her from the ground, attempting to make a hasty escape from the gruesome scene playing out before them. She twisted her body so that she could see her savior. It was Marawyn, her mother, dark hair whipping out behind her, a few tufts pasted to her cheekbones by sweat. They couldn't seem to run fast enough, wherever the two of them would turn, the horrific setting would appear directly in front of the tips of their toes, so close that they nearly toppled headfirst into the turmoil.

Except, before she could even begin to process what was happening, everything snapped to darkness once again, and the only thing that filled her thoughts was a sound. A single, meek sound, the safety of silence hiding just behind the racket. Laughter. Heartless, malicious cackles, raspy, corroded by the damage of the thick smoke that had previously hung in the air. She wanted to scream, to find refuge somewhere safe, but there was nowhere secure and sheltered. There was merely a single expanse that stretched out before her, and that was one of shade, of black that swallowed everything except for the cold blooded chuckles that filled her ears.

She couldn't break away from it, she couldn't run, she couldn't hide.

All that Ailith could do was remain rooted to her claimed area of obsidian and withstand the torture in which she didn't understand, churning her insides and chipping away at her courage for a time that seemed longer than forever.


	2. Chapter 1: Black Wings in the Cold

**A/N: As I mentioned in the last chapter, this is my first go at writing about the mind blowing and incredibly amazing game, Skyrim, and I must say that I'm extremely excited. From the moment that I created Ailith, my mind started reeling with ideas for some sort of cool back story. Those ideas eventually led to more elaborate thinking, which led to writing this. I've recently decided that I'm going to make this pretty long, at least fifty chapters or more. Though, by the time that I got around to starting, I remembered that I've already played through a decently large chunk of the game, so I'm hoping that won't alter any of my motivation... Or accuracy. **

**On a different note, after I finished the Prologue and read through it for the billionth time, I realized that it's a bit hard to follow. For those of you who are the slightest bit confused, even if there aren't many, to ease my unintentional worries, I'm going to just simply say that it was a dream. (Or, more like a hellish nightmare.) But, enough of me, I'm sure you'd like to read more about Ailith. **

**Enjoy and thanks so much for reading!**

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_**Chapter One - Black Wings in the Cold**_

* * *

Ailith was unceremoniously yanked from the dreary recesses of her mind by hitting a deep rut in the ground, auburn eyes slowly flicking open, revealing themselves to the gloomy and grey atmosphere that surrounded her. The sound of horse hooves clobbering against rocky terrain cascaded through the air, along with the brief song of a bird every now and then. She soon came to her senses enough to feel splintery wood uncomfortably digging into her arm, and notice that a tight sliver of rope was painfully forcing her wrists together. Her sturdy leather armor had been discarded, to her dismay, and replaced by a rough spun tunic with poor stitching, thread poking through the itchy fabric along the sleeves and pant legs. She wriggled against the lumbered seat, relief flooding through her as she felt the familiar cold press of the amulet that was thrown around her neck.

The young elf duly noted the creaking of aged wagon wheels rolling over stones, breath catching in her throat as she saw the worn helmet of an Imperial seated at the front of the carriage that she was sprawled within. Further along, over the solider's broad shoulder, through the heavy mists that cloaked the area, she could barely make out the faint outline of another chariot. She swallowed, the unexpected realization that she wasn't alone dawning over her.

"Hey, you, you're finally awake." A rough, heavily accented voice slurred, causing her to wearily pull herself the rest of the way up. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that Imperial ambush, same as us," he muttered, fixing a cold glance at the thin man seated beside him before speaking, "and that thief over there."

She remained silent for more than a few lingering heartbeats, gaze coolly sweeping over the burly man's appearance. Shaggy blonde hair fell just past his chin in straight, wind ruffled strands, and a lazily woven braid tumbled to the side of one carefully arched brow. A pair of striking azure irises stared at her with bleak indifference, narrowed at the pale sunlight that had recently washed over the scenery. Muscular arms emerged from chain mail sleeves, large wrists also firmly bound together much like her own.

"Yes." Ailith murmured, not fully knowing if what she spoke was the truth. Only, a mere second later, a sudden recollection stormed through her mind, sending quakes of sadness clawing at her body that immediately began poking and prodding at her self control.

_No—Rielus, Sylvana! Gods, I should have known, forgive me. I could of prevented this. _

"Damn you Stormcloaks." The lanky man, who the blonde had referred to as a thief, spat, fixing a hard, cold stare on him. "Skyrim was fine until you came along, Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could of stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!" he sneered, embedding every word with deep disgust and disdain.

_Stormcloaks? What do I have to do with them and their quarrels? Why am I here? _

The thief's gaze turned to her, sunken brown eyes blazing with resentment. "You there—you and me, we're not supposed to be here, it's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Ailith was unable to muster the correct statement to say to such bitterness, so her attention instead turned to the stout figure rooted beside her, elbows rested firmly upon his knees, eyelids drawn down in aggravation. She noticed that he was wearing rather elegant clothing, an onyx cloak trimmed with dark fur, fading to a dull gray in some areas. There was also a dirty cloth gagging him, and she found herself curious as to why the Imperials would go to such measures to assure that he couldn't speak. When she squinted through the sunlight, past the large form next to her, she could see that there was a stocky soldier with neatly combed apricot hair seated upon a horse, slowly advancing forward just a few feet behind their rickety wagon.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, _thief." _The man whom she had first spoken to explained blandly, weaving tight knit scorn into his final phrase.

"Shut up back there!" The Imperial seated in front of the lot of them ordered firmly, the metal that had been crafted into his armor flashing in the light.

Ailith's mouth twitched at his crude behavior, wrists uncomfortably rubbing together from within their restraints. There was a brief quiet that suspended over them, like the tranquil calm before a storm, until the gaunt man seated beside the light haired soldier broke the silence, tone holding an edge of slight amusement.

"What's wrong with him, huh?"

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" the blue eyed warrior commanded sternly, every word he spoke sodden with thick, dripping venom.

_By the Gods and Daedra, _the young elf swore internally, throwing a more surprised glance at the burly individual grounded just mere inches from her. "Ulfric Stormcloak..." she spoke slowly, voice so faint that it was hardly audible over the racket of the vibrant forests lining either side of the pathway that they were steadily galloping down. _If they have him, then— _

"Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm?" The horse thief spoke incredulously, seemingly in as much shock, if not more, than she was. "You're the leader of the rebellion," he recalled swiftly, words turning sour with distaste. "If they captured you..." he paused, as if he was realizing something, a haunting reality that had been looming over the four of them all along, they just hadn't known it. "Oh _Gods, _where are they taking us?" he sputtered shakily, fear showing through in the dark, previously malevolent orbs of his eyes.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." The blonde soldier spoke lowly, expression turning from rueful to solemn and sad within seconds.

"No, this isn't happening—this can't be happening." The scrawny horse thief stuttered, attempting to push away the gloomy and foreboding situation that they had fallen into.

Ailith swallowed down the subtle terror that was beginning to curdle her insides, large sections of honey colored hair tumbling over her sharp cheekbones. _We're going to be executed. _She had suspicions of their impending death whirling through her head beforehand, when it had been revealed that the Jarl of Windhelm was riding with them, but she refused to accept such things until now.

"Hey, where are you from, horse thief?" the brawny soldier's voice turned soft, head twisting at an angle to get a better look at the lean Nord.

"Why do you care?" He spoke dryly, brows furrowing uneasily.

"A person's last thoughts should be of home." His unevenly cropped golden hair was swept behind his shoulders by a sudden, somewhat relieving stir of the breeze, turning his slow words into a revelation that was much more heart rendering and unsettling.

"Rorikstead," he responded languidly, as if he were speaking the name of his birthplace for the first time, rolling the foreign words around on his tongue. "I'm... I'm from Rorikstead," the gates of the steadily approaching town had been swung open just moments before, and lying just beyond those two towering entrances, was their inescapable fate.

"And you?" the blonde soldier inquired, attention turning promptly to Ailith.

"Riften." She spoke evenly, images of the near barren Hold flashing through her mind. Vivid memories of the bleak wooden walkways scattered with dried leaves. The guards on duty grumbling useless insults directed at the Thieves Guild residing beneath the city. The fond sound of boats bobbing against the surface of clear water. The almost desperate calls of the few merchants who made an impoverished living there, eager to get some coin clinking in their pockets by the end of the day. Even if she had moved from Whiterun a measly two years ago, the lavish fishing community had quickly become her home.

"General Tullius sir, the headsman is waiting!" A nearby Imperial hollered, causing a lump to form in Ailith's throat. This was truly happening, she was going to die._  
_

"Good, let's get this over with." The General quipped, as if the bound prisoners were merely time costing inconveniences, not actual lives.

She heard the horse thief mutter a quick prayer to the Divines, begging for help, but Ailith could hardly pay attention. Her concentration was focused solely on Tullius, who had swiftly graying hair, undoubtedly due to the stress of his position, and the Thalmor officials that were huddled close by. Something from within her shifted at the sight of the highly ranked Altmer, sending prickling chills down her spine.

"Look at him, General Tullius, the military governor, and it looks like the Thalmor are with him. _D__amn elves_, I bet they had something to do with this." The Stormcloak sniggered with obvious repulsion. Her stomach knotted in discomfort at his language, so openly cursing her kind, even if it was directed at another branch of her race. He fixed a quick apologetic glance in her direction, as if he had sensed her unease.

Ailith barely noticed the large gates swinging shut as the taut Imperial riding behind them trotted into the comfortable town. She could sense the rigid feeling that currently bathed the settlement, rolling off of the citizens in waves. _I suppose this is the fabled disquiet that I've always heard of about public executions. _The deep rhythm of the level headed Stormcloak's voice wafted into her ears, something about Helgen and being sweet on a girl, along with mead brewed with juniper berries mixed in. Her gaze suddenly snapped towards him at his next words, sympathy writhing at her insides.

"Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe..."

"I as well." She spoke, shocking herself with how hoarse her voice sounded as she raised it above a murmur. She swallowed, tensely stretching her fingers from within the suffocating coil of rope. Her pointed ears twitched at the sound of a small child asking his father about who they were, just to have his guardian respond in a dark and demanding voice to get inside the house, as if they were monsters, and his son reluctantly obliged. Their wagon loudly halted in its movements, stopping so firmly that it nearly sent Ailith topping over one of the wooden sides.

"Why are we stopping?" The haggard man from Rorikstead questioned nervously, struggling to be heard over the racket of an Imperial officer barking orders to her underlings.

"Why do you think?" the blue eyed soldier retorted lowly. "End of the line." He grumbled, accented voice holding a dense undertone of grief. "Let's go, shouldn't keep the Gods waiting for us."

They all stood in unison, Ailith's legs screaming in protest at not being used for more than a few hours. An unexpected throbbing pain shot down her side as the skin there stretched, burning fits of agony lapping at her innards. She bit back weak cries, along with her pity for the scrawny stallion burglar and his meaningless rambles about the fact that the two of them weren't rebels. _At this point, I doubt that would change a thing, despite the fact that it may be true._

"Face your death with some courage, thief." The Stormcloak soldier dully encouraged, the wood groaning while he shifted his position.

"You've got to tell them we w_eren't _with you!" The horse prowler cried, nearly toppling clumsily onto the dusty earth as he dropped from the chariot. "This is a mistake!"

"Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!" The assertive officer who had been howling commands just moments before demanded, firmly resting her hands against her metal clad hips.

"The Empire loves their damn lists." The man with piercing sapphire eyes murmured, leaping down beside Ailith with a faint grunt.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." An Imperial soldier who had a quill pinched between his fingers called, glancing down at the parchment resting within his palm. With closer examination, she realized that he was the man that had been traveling behind them during the long journey to Helgen.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." The blonde man mumbled respectfully as his leader retreated.

"Ralof of Riverwood."

Ailith watched as the soldier whom she had briefly conversed with broke off from the mass of captives destined to be brought to early deaths, head bent shamelessly towards the ground, a scowl plastered onto his gruff features. Her gaze loitered on Ralof's back for a few moments longer, getting lost in her own thoughts, the world beginning to blur away from around her, until a firm voice hollered, "_archers!" _And before she had the chance to blink, the man from Rorikstead, whose name she didn't catch, was lying dead with the jagged tips of at least four arrows piercing his backside, blood already pooling beneath his limp form.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The Imperial officer questioned tauntingly, rough features silently stating that she wasn't in the mood to be tinkered with.

"_Wait_, you there, step forward." The soldier bearing the parchment suddenly ordered, and soon enough she found herself face to face with the muscular man. He had a surprisingly kind face, she realized, except it was set grimly due to the dull aura that was weighing them all down. "Who are you?"

"Ailith Dawn-Sabre." She answered numbly, russet irises clouded over in a dull haze.

"Not many Wood Elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim." The large Imperial muttered, striking a chord from somewhere within her.

_I didn't. _

"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list." He angled his head towards the loud officer, patiently awaiting her response.

"Forget the list, she goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain." He spoke, giving her a sincere tug of the lips. "I'm sorry, we'll make sure your remains are returned to Valenwood. Follow the captain, prisoner."

Ailith briefly shut her eyes. _No, not__ Valenwood. There is nothing for me there. _She made no response, instead chewing at the side of her mouth, squinting at the sunlight bouncing off of the Imperial Captain's iron helmet as they advanced towards the horde of people who were hesitantly awaiting their forced passing.

_An open execution of a thief, one who tries to avoid that very thing, being noticeable. A rather unbecoming death, I believe, _the young elf thought gratingly, advancing towards the rocky patch of land where she was to die.

* * *

Ralof tiredly rolled his shoulders, gawking at the mass of brute muscle that made up the executioners body. He was to be brought to an end by the fine edge of the axe that he clutched in his large hand, the dark tip winking silver in the light. The young soldier's eyes, like pallid shards of malachite, jerked to the tips of his scuffed boots. He still had so much that he wished to accomplish, dead dreams helplessly slipping through his grasp as wind would through a rickety tree branch.

He wanted to put an end to the Thalmor and their twisted ambition for power, destroy the sturdy wall that they had built between Nords and their revered God, Talos. He wanted Skyrim to be put under the control of a person whom he knew that he could trust, a person that wasn't aligned with the Legion, the very organization that willingly accepted the terms of the White-Gold Concordat without so much as a single complaint. And that person was Ulfric Stormcloak, the man that was going to be executed within the hour. His only hope, Skyrim's only hope, was gone.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, some here in Helgen call you a hero." Ralof was hurled from his thoughts at the angered voice of General Tullius, who was now standing before the burly Bear of Markarth. "But a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to_ murder _his king and usurp the throne."

_By Talos, it wasn't murder! Ulfric wouldn't dare commit something so shameless, he is a man of honor and dignity!_

Ulfric seemed to disagree with the accusation as well, for he writhed from within his constraints, pale blue-green eyes turning so venomous that it sent chills down even Ralof's back. He sputtered what was bound to be insults, but his words were muffled and inaudible due to the rag that bound his mouth shut.

A flash of silver winked from the corner of his eye, dragging his attention from his commander to a rather large Imperial, who was stiff with awareness, standing on the opposing end of the block. Grounded no more than a foot away from the soldier was the near silent elf who had been seated across from him during the strained ride there. Jaggedly cropped tawny hair fell just past her shoulders, matted, but still shining a deep copper in the sunlight. The knotted strands framed sharp elven cheekbones and a softly pointed chin, her expression seemed rigid, almost as if she were in pain. And when Ralof's gaze traveled back upwards, he couldn't help that his brow quizzically furrowed.

She possessed vibrant irises the color of a crimson sunset, though they seemed distant and clouded, glazed over with a certain longing that he couldn't place. Elvish eyes had always struck him as absurd ever since he was a measly little cub, barely out of his toddler years. They were strangely slanted, always seeming to hold an unfaltering cold that could turn even the most heated flame atronach to ice. Though, in this particular case, they didn't cause a deep rooted unease to roll his insides, they were_ different_. That was the only way that he could describe them, they were almost... human. Something that he never seemed able to consider her kind as.

"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos." Tullius continued grimly, his words practically dripping with what he believed to be justice. "And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

As if on cue, an unearthly roar echoed to the north of where the prisoners were standing, filling their ears with an odd, distant rebound. _  
_

"What was that?" The Imperial with neatly groomed apricot hair—_Hadvar,_ _my old friend_, he realized darkly—inquired, throwing an almost nervous glance over his shoulder.

"It's nothing." General Tullius quipped, ushering them all to continue. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius!" The tightly woven Imperial Captain spoke, giving her leader a quick salute as he retreated. She turned towards a woman dressed from head to toe in lackluster yellow robes and spoke, "give them their last rites."

The Priestess hastily raised her arms towards the heavens and began to chant a statement in which she had undoubtedly practiced many a time, her soft, feathery voice wafting through the air. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight divines upon you— "

"For the love of Talos, _shut up _and let's get this over with!" A fiery Stormcloak with unruly red hair snapped, impatiently advancing towards where the headsman was waiting to snatch his life from him. _Onbjorn, always much too driven for your own good, friend. _

"As you wish." The Priestess murmured sourly, obviously discontented with her speech being so harshly cut short.

"Come on, I haven't got all morning!" Onbjorn howled, head stubbornly dipped towards the cobblestones beneath his feet.

The Imperial Captain rested her hand upon his back, giving the headsman a brief nod before forcing him onto his knees with a firm shove. She hardly hesitated as she planted a foot solidly on his spine and heaved him the rest of the way down, exposing the tanned skin on his neck.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials! Can you say the same?" He sneered, determined to make his final mark on the world. The burly man bearing the axe pitched it into the air, the blade seeming wickedly sharp in the light as it prepared for its next slaughter. Ralof's gaze remained firmly trained on the spot, watching as his friend, with a stomach lurching _thump_, was torn from this world and into the next, his head tumbling into a carefully placed basket with a puddle of blood splashing onto the ground.

The Imperial woman gently poked his limp corpse to the side with the tip of her boot, a disgusted scowl plastered onto her gruff features. Ralof was sickened by the sight before him. A man who had fearlessly fought at his side, driven by his need to end the Empire's restraints on Skyrim, sprawled lifelessly on the dirt. _Tsun's brawn__, I never would of thought that I'd have to experience this first hand. _

"You Imperial bastards!" A Stormcloak hollered.

"Justice!" A citizen snarled.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!" Another wailed angrily.

"As fearless in death, as he was in life." Ralof modestly spoke up over the chaos, breaking the loud streak of infuriated bellows. He felt the abashed stare of the golden haired elf bore into his side, but he brushed it under the rug, unable to focus on such trifles over the anguish that was flooding through his body.

"Next, elf in the rags!" The Imperial Captain ordered, fixing the woman from the cart with a cold, menacing stare.

Another ethereal cry thundered from the clouds, the faint remnants of the appalling sound spreading over the courtyard in thick echoes.

"There it is again, did you hear that?" Hadvar questioned restlessly, throwing an expectant glance at his superiors.

"I said _next prisoner!_" His Captain shouted indignantly, her lips compressing to a thin, pallid line.

Producing nothing but a small huff as a complaint, the Imperial beckoned the crimson eyed Bosmer forward. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

Ralof watched solemnly as she pushed herself forward, defined features shrouded in deep, unreadable shadows. He couldn't seem to quench the sadness that began to take a hold of his heart. _Gods__, so much death in one day. _

* * *

Ailith skidded to an abrupt halt directly in front of the jagged slab of stone, fixing a bitter glare at the Imperial who had been calling out the names of the people who were to be thoughtlessly killed, which he answered to with nothing but an expression of raw sympathy. She was crudely hurled down onto the block, chest painfully slamming onto the uneven surface. The young elf gritted her teeth in a failed attempt to calm the storm of agony that suddenly began swimming beneath her skin, in the exact area that had been drumming with pain when she had fled the wagon.

_Arkay, please, I beg that you make this swift. _

Her tangled hair spread apart, falling to either side of her neck, fully exposing the pale skin there. The massive, looming shadow of the headsman completely swallowed her own, and she tried her best to focus on anything but his mountainous figure, and the handle of the battle axe that was digging into the soil just a finger's length away from her nose. Her blurred vision flicked to the crumbling tower that stood just behind the man who was to end her life, the cracked bricks falling away in some areas, leaving large, gaping holes in the walls. When her gaze fell back to the earthy floor, she nearly choked as her lungs constricted, causing her to helplessly struggle for air.

The hefty, elongated hilt of the weapon had vanished, undoubtedly raised to the skies, brightening at the thought of more blood coating its blade. But that wasn't the object that had snagged her attention. An enormous black form shot through the air, appearing from behind the craggy slope of a nearby mountain. Dark, massive wings laced with shade stretched out next to each of its spiked sides, the strange appendages swooping to catch gusts of wind to hold it afloat. It let out one last ear shattering wail before swooping down, straight towards the ground.

"What in Oblivion is _that?" _General Tullius swore.

"Sentries!" The Imperial Captain barked. "What do you see?"

_Gods and Daedra, it can't be— _

"It's in the clouds!" A soldier yowled, almost impossible to hear over the sound of the otherworldly creature crashing onto the top of the tower that she had been examining, its sharp talons breaking the stones to pieces, littering the ground with dust. The impact of the beast's landing violently shook the ground beneath her, and the headsman toppled onto the earth, his weapon clattering uselessly off to the side. Clouds of debris swept into the air, small shards of rock painfully lodging themselves into her eyes.

"Dragon!" A terrified voice hollered, confirming her horrifying theory.

_By the Nine, it is._

The dragon let out a mighty roar, resounding through the courtyard like a clap of thunder, turning the sky to a dim bowl of swirling black and red mists. Before Ailith could process what was happening, the fiend opened its large jaw, exposing two rows of razor sharp teeth, and let out a ferocious bellow that distorted the atmosphere as it flew from its mouth. The collision of the outcry seemed to sweep the land out from underneath her, sending her sprawling sideways, shattered stones biting into her skin. She blinked the remnants of blurred residue from her eyes, repeating the action until the world became basked in pure clarity.

"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!" General Tullius hollered, his command hardly distinguishable over the chaos that had erupted over Helgen.

"Hey, get up!" An oddly familiar voice howled, causing her to push herself up off of the tarnished cobblestones, desperately searching for the man who had hailed her.

Ailith's features immediately whitened at the scene that enclosed itself around her, it seemed to be pulled from one of the many gruesome books that explained The Great War. Pockets of smoldering fire spread across the ground, and around three houses had already been fully engulfed in the flames, their orange tips licking at the muggy sky. The carriages that they had been transported in were meaningless heaps of charred wood laying in shambles, and slack, lifeless bodies of Imperials and Stormcloaks alike were scattered amongst the rubble, singed flesh leaving blackened craters in their skin.

"Come on, the Gods won't give us another chance!" The male wailed another time, except now, the young Wood Elf was able to pinpoint where exactly he was calling to her from. "This way!"

Ralof stood but a mere few feet away from her weak form, frantically gesturing her forward with a dirt slathered hand. Except, when she placed one foot shakily in front of the other, an array of bear sized boulders toppled onto the earth, momentarily blocking her pathway to the brawny soldier. She attempted to continue onward once again, but a flaring pain suddenly engulfed her ankle, the force of the blow knocking her to her knees. She flung herself around to see the damage, a large section of the debris had crushed the bone, severely shattering the artery.

"Gods damn it!" Ralof cursed, hurriedly scrambling to her aid. He half carried, half dragged the injured woman to a nearby citadel, flames whipping at their feet as they struggled through the wooden door, smacking it shut behind them.

The interior of the stronghold was bathed in a faint orange hue, reflecting off of the slick stone walls, all manifesting from a lit torch hanging from its mantle. Blood stained the floor off to the side of an injured Stormcloak soldier, who was currently hunched over on one knee, palm firmly clamped over an unseen wound on his stomach, thick crimson liquid seeping through his fingers. And just to the right of him was a large staircase that led to a higher point in the fortress, it was in front of this passage that Ralof carefully set Ailith down.

"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing?" the blonde warrior asked sternly. She briefly noted that the leader of the rebellion had yanked off the cloth that had been preventing him from speaking sometime within the turmoil raging outdoors. "Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages." Ulfric corrected gravely, rubbing at his bearded jaw. Ailith was momentarily dumbfounded at the deep brogue of his voice, and briefly questioned if she had heard him correctly. She was torn from her inquiries as the burning sensation corroding her ankle flooded further along her leg, causing a weak cry to slip from her control.

_Haromir's sorcery, this hurts._

"We need to move, _now!" _Ulfric snarled, his voice surprisingly easy to place over the loud clamors of the beast from behind the rocky walls of the keep.

"Up through the tower, let's go!" Ralof slurred, sprinting to where Ailith was slumped, hurriedly helping her to stand with a strong hand upon her forearm. The young elf gratefully accepted his support, straining to keep up with his swift pace as they ascended the long, twisting staircase.

"We just need to _move!" _A Stormcloak jeered once they reached the top, but not even a second had passed before the sturdy wall in front of them collapsed, burying the soldiers in a mountain of crumbled wreckage.

Ailith's eyes widened, horrified, as the dragon's gigantic body draped over the opening that it had created, its huge ebony maws spreading open. A small spark seemed to kindle from the back of its throat, before the whole room was engulfed in a skin melting heat.

"Get back!" The Bosmer woman hollered, retreating away just in time to save herself from becoming incinerated.

Her gaze jerked in the direction of Ralof, who had been badly burnt along his arm, and was tenderly grasping the area where the skin had been scorched, revealing the pink, fatty muscle peeking from underneath his trembling fingertips.

"See the inn on the other side?" He spoke up loudly, tilting the crown of his head towards a disheveled cottage grounded a decently large amount below them. "Jump through the roof and get going. Go, we'll follow when we can!" _  
_

Ailith fixed him with an incredulous stare, but he looked back at her with nothing but confidence, so she averted her sight to the lumbered floorboards of the tavern, aiming to make the unrealistic drop.

_I pray to every last Aedra and Daedra that I can trust you, _she thought discontentedly, squinting to see through the dense, smoky line of fog that still continued to stubbornly burn her eyes. The Bosmer gingerly gathered up all the strength that she could muster, biting down on her tongue at the molten agony prodding at her ankle, and weakly plummeted from the brim of the tower with nothing on her mind but the long fall down if she didn't make it to the other side.

* * *

**A/N: I suppose you could say that this is my take on the beginning of the game, I really wanted to have a crack at it. I've always thought that it had super inspirational detail, and had the blatant potential to be described further, and so the first chapter was created. I hope this has at least briefly satisfied your cravings for a decent Skyrim fic, and also sealed the deal with a few of you. Keep an eye out for chapter two within the next few days, I'm aiming to get it out during that time. See you then!  
**


	3. Chapter 2: Clumsily Escaping a Dragon

**A/N: Thank you all for waiting so long for this, sheesh. Writer's block is an extremely evil thing that seriously shouldn't exist. Anyway, the next chapter will most likely be out within the next few days. Keep an eye out for it, and again, super huge thanks for reading! (Reviews are greatly appreciated, I'd like to know what you think so far!)**

* * *

_**Chapter Two - Clumsily Escaping a Dragon**_

* * *

Ailith stumbled through the large door that led into Helgen Keep, immediately finding the nearest stone wall to lean against to keep her balance somewhat steady. Ralof slammed the rickety wooden entrance closed, leaving them basked in an unwavering—almost unsettling silence. She flexed her wrists, now free of their restraints—someone must have sliced away the uncomfortable twist of rope during the chaos raging outside—and gritted her teeth at the pain still flaring from both her ankle and the unknown wound that stretched across the pale expanse of her back.

"Let me see that ankle, quickly," Ralof muttered shakily, kneeling down so that he could more easily inspect the wound. She hissed as he prodded at the tender spots with his fingers, pinpointing where it needed the most attention.

They had narrowly escaped the beast howling just behind the few feet of rock protecting them from a now crumbled and wrecked Helgen. Ailith had briefly ran alongside the redheaded Imperial—who she recently found was called Hadvar—and had helplessly watched as a father had been burnt to ash directly in front of his son's young, inexperienced eyes. She was willing to bet that that the boy's gaze had been virgin to death until today. She had seen mothers and innkeepers and blacksmiths alike fall to the dragon, heard the screams of anguish that sounded much like the ones that plagued her dreams.

"Ah, there we are," he clicked his tongue as he pressed down on the area of the injury that seemed to be shattered worst, ignoring the weak groans of protest from Ailith, and spread this large hand open. He carefully focused, creases of concentration forming on his forehead, and suddenly, tendrils of white light wove from his palm, slowly snaking around her ankle, repairing the ripped sinew and melding her broken bones. She bit back a sigh of relief, angling her head against the slick wall rooted behind her.

"You're hurt," she observed quietly, auburn eyes flicking over the fleshy muscle hanging from his arm, reddened and inflamed. She decided it best not to inform him of the wound on her back, which was pulsing anguished beats to the rhythm of her heart.

"So are you. I knew that teaching myself some restoration magic would come in handy at some point, what with me being a soldier," Ralof spoke solemnly, shoulders tense as he fought back the pain of his burn. The yellowish strings dancing across her skin were reflected in the azure hue of his irises, highlighting his silent anguish.

The young elf said nothing, yanking her foot from his light hold, testing her weight on the bone. She cringed at the gentle, irritated thrums that still swam around it, but it was nothing compared to the pain she had been laden with before, so she tilted her head in silent thanks and allowed him to focus on his own problems.

Ailith stepped towards a fallen Stormcloak, throwing a sympathetic glance at Ralof, who returned it with a steely expression and a small nod. She slipped the deceased soldier's one handed axe—which was surprisingly heavy, despite its slight size—and gave it a few test swings. She much preferred swords or a bow over any other type of weapon, but she'd make do with what she had.

She swung her head around, inspecting a crumbling door sealed with sturdy iron bars that seemed to lead further on into the Keep. Ailith pursed her cracked lips, tugging on the metal rods to no avail. _Gods be damned, it's locked._ The ground shook beneath them, clamors of the dragon could be heard now, much too close for their liking, shrieks of fear and misery cloaking the thick, heated air.

She tried her best not to look panicked, and raked her fingers through her knotted head of pallid copper hair. Ailith's eyes narrowed as the enhanced hearing that was custom to her race picked up the faintest sound from across the confined room—the racket of repeating, uncoordinated metal and leather slapping against mossy stone._ Footsteps_, the young Bosmer realized with a start. She flung herself around, mouth opened, a warning teetering on the edge of her tongue, but Ralof was already alert and ready, iron dagger firmly held in his experienced fingers. She was suddenly thankful that she had a soldier with her, trained for situations almost identical to this.

Ailith honed in on the voices—a captain, or an individual of high standing, considering the assertive tone, and her underlings, breathing heavily in short, uneven rasps. She readied her axe, hoping that fighting with it wouldn't be as different as it would with her own weapons, and pushed herself against the wall. She balanced her weight on the balls of her feet, shuffling silently towards the door that the horde was approaching.

The first person whisked into the room, sword and shield wedged within his hands, clad from head to toe in the armor of an Imperial. She reduced her breathing to brief intakes, just enough to where it was comfortable, but not loud enough to be heard, and began quietly sliding up behind the burly man.

"Death, or Sovngarde!" Ralof hollered, thoughtlessly discarding Ailith's idea of stealth for that of a warrior.

She only gave it a second of consideration before letting out a near feral snarl, burying the blade of the axe into the side of the Imperial's neck, the dense bone of his spinal chord causing the strong swing to come to a grinding, unsightly halt. His thick crimson blood spilled over her fingers, warm against her hand, and within a few measly seconds, the stench of the Nord's recent death swamped through her nostrils.

Ailith let out a strangled yelp as her hair yanked backwards against her scalp, led by the rough hands of another large soldier. Lukewarm liquid was teetering above her bottom lashes as she slammed onto the cold ground, nicking the fragile skin on her cheek against the rugged stone. The brute of a man raised his war axe—nearly five times the size of hers—over his head, lips pulled back in a cold sneer. The itchy, thin tunic seemed like the biggest burden she's ever had to bear, then, as she prepared for the oncoming agony of the sharpened blade sinking into her flesh. If only she had a better set of armor. She refused to clamp her eyes shut, instead facing the Nord with a stare that she hoped looked fearless.

She recoiled in shock as the tip of Ralof's dagger pierced straight through the Imperial's neck, the metal jutting out just below his chin. He yanked it free with a faint grunt, and the man collapsed, a gurgling mess of blood and sloppily sputtered curses. They barely had time to gather themselves as their Captain bounded into the fray, bellowing out a throaty battle cry as she swung her sword towards Ralof's head, undoubtedly aiming to kill in one rage induced blow. Ailith, thinking fast, lashed out at her knees with her feet, feeling a bolt of triumph shoot through her as the Nord skittered to the side, caught off guard, but not disabled.

Ralof took this moment of dumbfounded confusion, lasting for only seconds, to swing his dagger at her, muscles in his arms coiling in tension. Only, she was more experienced than her comrades, and she easily dodged the wide arc of his blow with a quick duck downwards. Ailith pulled herself from the rocky ground, jerking the axe forward. The blade uselessly scraped across her sturdy armor, leaving a shallow gash where the metal had been peeled away. The Imperial woman whipped around, momentarily distracted, eyes ignited in anger. And before she had the chance to blink, Ralof's dagger pierced through her throat, ripping through the raw, meaty inner flesh of her neck and tearing open the opposite side, the tip of the blade stained red with her lifeblood.

He ripped his weapon from her flesh with a thick, wet sound, breath heaving through his lips, her own filtering heavily through her nostrils. She latched her axe into its scabbard, cringing at the strengthened stench of death that had engulfed the room. Ralof lazily rolled his shoulders, hardly taking notice of the crimson liquid wallowing around their feet.

Ailith's calculating gaze swept over the armor that the three soldiers had been clad from head to toe in, taking in the sturdiness of the materials and metals, the deadly sharpness of their blades, and briefly weighed her options. She slipped two of the swords from their previous owners and tossed them off to the side, the iron clanging loudly against the floor before clattering to a stop. The young Bosmer made quick work of stripping the female of her uniform, tucking herself within the slightly over sized leather, tugging the straps into place, despite the low growls of disapproval from Ralof.

"I'd wager that this armor will protect me more than the scraps of cloth that make up yours," Ailith lightly teased, lips twitching in what she hoped look like a smile rather than an annoyed scowl.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think you'd be surprised," Ralof responded, attention almost fully focused on the doorway that the Imperials had hurled themselves from.

"I'd rather not test that theory right now," she murmured sourly, snatching the nearly identical one handed swords from the ground, cautiously twirling them around in her grip, adjusting herself to their—thankfully—much lighter weight. "Let's go."

* * *

_"Troll's blood_—_"_

Ailith frantically motioned for Ralof to silence himself as they made their way down the wide, chipped staircase, throwing him a molten glare as she prayed to the Gods that the Imperials awaiting them nearby hadn't detected their presence. Her scuffed boots made spongy, watery sounds as they suctioned down against the grassy moss that dotted the rock. She blew the thick section of moist, tangled hair that had fallen over her vision away with a strong huff and wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing dirt and ash into long black line.

She skittered the rest of the way down with a few nearly inaudible bounds and slithered up against the wall, breath silent but heavy, and slowly peeked into the humid room. The first thing her gaze latched onto was the thick, molasses like blood splattered across a square shaped elevation in the center, rosy liquid trailing across the small step leading to the dirtied platform and leaking into the spaces between the stone engraved floor. Three Imperials, a few large, rusted cages with deceased Nords slumped within them—she could tell by the distinct scent of their race—and a tall wooden bed with multiple leather straps embedded in the lumber to hold a body in place. _A torture chamber. _

Ralof let out a small sound of disapproval, hardly loud enough for the patrolling soldiers to pinpoint, and scraped the blood from his dagger onto his disheveled cuirass. His unruly blonde hair was matted with sweat, clumping large portions of the strands together, soot and mud tarnishing his pale features. (She briefly wondered why he wasn't tanned, as most soldiers were, but the realization that he must spend a decent amount of his days in Eastmarch—where the ground is constantly infested with an endless blanket of crystalline snow—slammed into her skull and quickly silenced her curiosity.)

She jerked her head towards the Imperials in a silent command, grip instinctively tightening on her duel blades before they charged out into the fray. They made quick work of them thanks to the combat technique that they subconsciously developed. Ailith distracted them with a harsh, but not nearly fatal blow, and Ralof would heave his dagger through their flesh, the meaty tissue and muscle breaking apart like butter at the sheer force that he possessed. The two of them were so caught up in the clash of metal against metal, the adrenaline that combat brought with it, that the rest of the world became flushed out and pallid, the bleak red of the Imperial's armor the only color that they saw, their blades glinting orange in the light of the lanterns.

They blinked as reality enclosed around them, humid and foul smelling, the bodies of their enemies scattered across the confined quarters. Ailith's gaze drifted over Ralof's comrades—whom she didn't realize had been there, aiding them in the midst of the fray—and immediately tensed as she felt the pressure of Ralof's back pressed against hers. She hurled herself away from him, shoving her swords into their scabbards strapped at either side of her narrow waist, and threw a skeptical glance at the blonde haired soldier. She had never felt that type of connection in battle before, being able to anticipate his next move and base her next attack on that, being able to completely _trust _him to know what action to take.

"Move your eyes away or I'll make quick work of ridding you of them," Ailith threatened to the Stormcloaks that were indiscreetly gawking at her with cold, bitter stares, their gazes slowly—deliberately—scanning her Imperial armor with disgust. "I'm nor Stormcloak or Imperial."

She snatched up a large onyx sack that was slumped against a wooden table atop the blood slathered platform, working it open with one hand and rooting through it with the other. She pulled out a healing potion, the solvent sloshing within the glass bottle, an apple, and a few lockpicks. She stared at the small metal tools with an almost fond familiarity, her grip involuntarily tightening on them. Ailith dropped the fruit and the potion back into the depths of the bag and slung it over one shoulder.

"Hey!" Ralof hissed from the side of one of the rusted cages, motioning for Ailith to approach him. "There's gold in there, might come in handy. Mind trying your hand at this lock? Never did have a talent for it myself."

She nudged him out of the way, hardly realizing that the action was slightly more exaggerated and rude than she had anticipated, and hurriedly set to work. Ailith forced her mentor's words to break to the surface of her mind, he'd hammered the method for lockpicking into her brain until it was lodged there, unmoving.

_Think of lockpicking as a lover, you don't want to move too swiftly, nor too slowly. And don't use too much force, kid. _

She ground her teeth together, swiftly moving the tiny, rickety shaft to the left and to the right, efficiently looking for the lock's weak spot. Once she found it, she rotated the key slot until she heard a satisfying _click_, and the door slowly creaked open.

The young Bosmer scooped up the septims with a small palm and slid them into the bag still dangling from her back, nodding as a signal that she was ready to move on. The Stormcloaks made it a task to keep their sight trained away from her, as if the equipment she was wearing was a toxic poison to them. She nearly smirked at that, since the armor that she would normally be clad in would bring her twice as much scowls and long glances of disapproval.

Ailith tried to ignore the fact that Ralof was now inspecting her with something like a newly found curiosity, two blonde eyebrows raised in question, undoubtedly due to the nearly nonexistent amount of effort it took for her to pick her way into the cage. She kept her head angled towards the space just above the tips of her boots and swiveled around, quickly stalking from the room.

Ailith didn't plan on relieving him of his silent inquiries, her life was her own business.

* * *

Ailith kept her crimson eyes firmly trained on the luminous, minty glow of the mushrooms lining the cave walls. The pale light manifesting from the fungus outlined the slimy moisture clinging to the rock, dripping from the high, craggy ceiling. The damp perspiration clung to the tangled roots of her hair, itching against her scalp. It always seemed to be nearly as cold as Windhelm within confined places such as this, goose flesh lined her arms and legs, and she could see the smoky puffs of breath curling from her lips as she exhaled. It hardly seemed to effect Ralof. _  
_

"So, you seem to have had your share of practice at picking locks," Ralof murmured casually, careful to keep his voice low.

"You've had dozens of your comrades fall within the past few hours, some were trapped back in the Keep by boulders, there's a dragon wrecking Helgen above us, and that's the path of conversation you choose to take?" Ailith snapped tartly, fiery orange eyes burning a hole into the left side of his face.

"I'd rather not talk about what's going on outside," he responded languidly, his irises briefly clouding with sadness at the thought of how many friends he's lost. "What you did back there, it was impressive. I've never unlocked anything without snapping the Gods damned pick."

"Practice makes you better at things you're not skilled at," she grumbled discontentedly, hurriedly jerking an arrow from its quiver—she had snagged a long bow from a deceased Imperial back in the Keep—as she heard a loud crash from somewhere deeper within the cave.

"Ah, so you've had to practice, then? Wonder why you'd need a skill like that," Ralof quirked a brow at her paranoid behavior, leisurely stepping forward from his spot a few paces behind her. "Relax, it was likely just a stone."

"For situations such as the one we ran into back in the Keep. And I will _not_ relax, have you forgotten about the danger we faced back there? The _dragon—"_

_"Ailith," _Ralof spoke sharply, the sound of her name scraping from his mouth snapping her from her stupor. (She didn't recall ever telling him what she called herself, but everything has been happening in a blur, so she wouldn't doubt it if she had informed him and forgotten about doing so.) "We're fine. Perhaps I should take the lead?"

"As you wish," Ailith allowed him to lead her further on into the cave, but her arrow still remained nocked into her bowstring. "I've been through much worse than this, but I've never seen anything like a _dragon_, for Talos' sake."

"You're a Talos worshiper?"

"I've lived in Skyrim for twenty eight years," the young Bosmeri woman responded tersely, gaze trained on the small stream trickling beside her foot. "I think I'm entitled to worship whomever I please."

"So it seems," Ralof mumbled, the pebbles and soil that lined the uneven ground crunching and sloshing beneath his boots. "You must be rather young, for an elf."

"For a Mer, yes. I'm around twenty five in elven years," she explained halfheartedly, wincing as a faint pain enfolded her ankle. "In Nordic years, that's a different story."

"I won't ask, women often times think I'm an inconsiderate oaf when I do," the burly Stormcloak sniffed. His arm suddenly shot out from his side, muscles ferociously shifting as he did so. "_Quiet, there's a bear up ahead. See her?"_

Ailith nearly rolled her eyes at his overcautious behavior. They had just been attacked by a wicked scaled beast at least ten times more malicious and malevolent than a measly cave bear. She squinted, sharpening her vision somewhat so that she could get a better view of the animal, and sucked in a large breath as she readied her bow, subconsciously straightening her spine as she did so. She focused in on the tarnished, mucky rolls of hair on the bear's neck that lifted and fell as she breathed, and released.

"What, never killed a bear before, soldier?" Ailith teased lightly as the large, furry creature let out an infuriated snarl and fell.

She hardly repressed a laugh at the look of irritation that crossed his features.

* * *

Ralof let out a relieved sigh as he felt the sunlight continue to warm the skin hiding beneath his mangled and soot infested cuirass, his lips drawing back in a wide smile as he stepped down the stone embedded pathway. He heard the sounds of nearby water lapping and rolling over stones, the chirping laughter of children, the birds singing overhead, all the unique noises that could only make up one place in all of Skyrim. His home, Riverwood. The tranquility and ignorance that the whole of the small town was basked in aided in ridding his mind of the dark, winged figure that had torn through the pallid sky as he and Ailith had finally broken free of the fiery claws of Helgen.

The Bosmer still seemed rather shaken, with a much too pale complexion and shaky, unsteady movements. Except she still managed to have a tongue sharp as Eorlund Gray-Mane's steel, so he didn't dwell on it much. He watched as her gaze darted uneasily around the cobble stone embedded dirt, sunset colored irises lingering on the happy demeanor that glazed over the townsfolk, save for a few.

They stepped onto a wooden platform beside a tall cabin, the sturdy boards whining beneath their weight as they rounded a wide corner. The loud stream flowing and sloshing beneath the timber faded off into the distance as they continued onto a spacious, verdant area that looked to be a Mill. A stout blonde haired woman let out a faint groan as she threw an armful of thickly chopped lumber into a large pile, smearing back the few dampened clumps of hair that stuck to her forehead by sweat with her fingers. She rested her palms on her dirt slathered knees, ruffling the muddied hem of her long dress.

"Gerdur!" Ralof hollered, relief flooding into the heavily accented brogue of his voice.

Gerdur's azure eyes widened at the sound of the soldier's voice, her features softening in something along the lines of a deep rooted affection as her sight settled upon him. She ran towards him with a palm covering her mouth, tears already welling beneath her eyes, and he caught her in a strong embrace, nearly tugging her from her feet. Ailith dragged a hand through her tawny locks, cringing as her thin fingers caught on knots and yanked at her scalp, attempting to keep the tense feeling that was tangling her stomach at bay.

"Brother," Gerdur said, feminine voice muffled by the dense padding that covered Ralof's shoulder. "Thank the Gods you're safe."

"I wouldn't be," Ralof retorted smugly, stepping back from his solid grasp on the Nord,—who Ailith now realized strongly resembled him, she had the same curve of the lips, the same piercing blue irises, and the same solid, firm jaw—keeping his large hands on top of each of her shoulders. "If it weren't for her."

"Oh—" Gerdur slurred, gaze politely scanning over her tarnished appearance. "Good to meet you..."

"Ailith," the young elf spoke, tilting her head in a terse greeting.

"Take whatever you might need from here," she murmured good naturedly, a few wisps of sun colored hair breaking free from the loose bundle at the back of her neck. "Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of ours."

"Thank you," Ailith mumbled shortly, and Gerdur offered her a slight smile and swiftly stepped towards the Lumber Mill.

"Hod, come here!" She hollered up into the large structure, attempting to be heard over the loud ruckus of a log being sawn in half by machine.

"What is it, woman?" A deep, raspy voice howled back, irritation edging his words.

"Just come here for a second!"

The ear shattering machine curtly silenced, and a towering man with a small rounded belly tromped to where he could be seen. And almost immediately, his sweat enveloped features brightened at the sight of Ralof.

"Ralof!" He jogged down onto the green tufts of grass, a big, dimpled beam tugging at his pink lips. He clapped the Stormcloak on the soldier and pulled him into a brief hug, releasing a measly second after he had jerked Ralof to him. "By Talos, you look like shit, boy."

"Right back at you, old man," Ralof jeered playfully, letting out a small chuckle as Hod's hand sloppily ruffled his hair.

Gerdur's thin eyebrows furrowed, head slowly shaking at their playful banter. She looked as if she were about to speak, full lips parted, but she was suddenly interrupted by an awestruck, childish gasp.

"Uncle Ralof!" a small Nordic boy scrambled away from the hustle and bustle of the village, and Ralof bent down onto one knee to lightly cup his upper arm and give it a gentle squeeze. "How's the war going? Is it fun? How many Imperials have you killed?" His barrage of questions thankfully ceased there, swinging a large sword that existed only in his imagination through the air as he spoke.

"Too many to count, little cub," Ralof responded fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grinned.

"_Whoa," _Ralof's nephew spoke as soon as his wide, bewildered irises settled on Ailith. "Are you a real elf?"

Ailith blinked hard a few times, ridding herself of her persistently approaching fatigue. Her features were still as stone as she stared down at the small Nord standing before her, and she self consciously straightened her posture. She didn't want to look careless and indifferent in front of his parents.

"Yes, a Bosmer from the woodland regions of Valenwood," she spoke slowly, unsure if her tongue was working properly as the words flurried from her throat. She never was particularly skilled at speaking to those a considerate amount younger than her.

"Is Valenwood as pretty as they say in books?" He asked eagerly, practically bouncing on his heels, his imaginary blade quickly forgotten.

"Oh, yes," Ailith murmured, though the measly amount of memories that she held of her birthplace were anything but beautiful. "A truly awe inspiring sight, though, is the White-Gold tower in Cyrodiil. It's so big you could never see the top even if you tried."

"You've been to Cyrodiil?" He squeaked, eyes so wide she was briefly afraid that they'd pop from their sockets.

"Frodnar," Gerdur scolded softly, gently pulling her son away from Ailith. "The boy's always had a fascination for elves, only ever seen one in his life," she spoke, facing Ailith as the words slipped from her mouth.

She looked to be about to say more, but the grave, crestfallen look that washed over her brother's face seemed to convince her otherwise. Her lips compressed to a thin line, and she swiftly murmured something into Frodnar's ear in hushed tones, and the small Nordic boy reluctantly nodded and backed away with one more bewildered glance Ailith's way.

"I assume we have important matters to discuss," Hod quirked a brow, his tone taking on a questioning, suspicious edge.

"Yes," Ralof spoke quietly, huffing out a terse breath as he collapsed onto a gigantic stump of a once towering and verdant tree, all the energy seemingly wiped from him. "We were at Helgen, I'm assuming you've heard the rumors?"

"We've heard some ridiculous talk of _dragons—" _Hod started, but Ailith hurriedly cut in, her statement dripping with dry unamusement.

"The talk you've been hearing is hardly ridiculous. There..." the young Bosmer sucked in a breath through her half parted lips—still cracked and sore from earlier on in the day—gathering strength from the action. "A dragon attacked Helgen, it's likely there were few survivors besides us."

"And Ulfric?" Gerdur inquired slowly, her voice wavering and nearly faltering as she spoke the Bear of Markarth's name.

"I... didn't see him escape," Ralof breathed, a flicker of deep rooted sadness passing over his soot slathered features.

"Start from the beginning, tell us everything," Gerdur blurted lightly, briefly leaning against Hod as if for support.

Ailith slowly slunked onto the large stump, rubbing tiredly at her eyes as Ralof began to retell their experience from the very beginning.

* * *

The orange fire blazing inside the Sleeping Giant Inn whipped from within its restraints, warming the few residents gathered in the main room. The smell of over salted roasts and pork wafted through the air, accompanied by the clink of silverware against plates, or the sound of mead being sipped from a metal flagon every so often. Ailith was thankful for the homely feeling the place brought, it was much more enjoyable than being forced to spend the night camped within a cluster of mountainous trees, despite that the thousands of white, flickering stars that guarded the evenings was a breathtaking sight.

She had been sitting on a rickety wooden chair inside of her rented quarters for so long she couldn't remember when she had started, pondering over Gerdur's request that she send Jarl Balgruuf a letter insisting that Riverwood was in need of guards. Ailith could hardly blame the Nordic woman for being set on edge, the vivid image of the dragon lancing through the sky above Helgen still slammed through her skull, sending shock waves of chills through her bones, nestling within her stomach and causing nausea to twist and curdle there.

She shivered, her fingers gripping the quill shaking beneath the pressure of her thoughts. Ailith attempted not to think of the events of earlier on that day, instead focusing on the crinkled parchment spread out before her. It had been two years since she's spoken to anyone from the likes of Whiterun, and the thought of the Gods damned _Jarl _being the first person that she make contact with was almost laughable. She downed a large gulp of ale, and carefully began to write.

_Jarl Balgruuf,_

_It's been a long while since I've spoken to you, and I'd prefer to start this letter on a more cheerful note, but the events of Helgen are still weighing heavily on me. You've likely caught wind of a rumored dragon attack there, it was a rather nasty situation, to say the least. (I'd rather not go into detail about it, if you don't mind.) By the end of it all, I found myself in Riverwood, and they request immediate attention to the fact that there aren't any guards to protect them against possible attacks in the future. If you could send some of your men here at once, it would be greatly appreciated._

_An old acquaintance, Ailith Dawn-Sabre._

She neatly folded the letter and firmly sealed it shut with crimson wax, setting it off to the side for when she decided to go and speak to the Courier resting in the main room beside the hearth. The young elf allowed herself to slump over the desk in front of her, cradling her head within her lazily crossed arms. She hesitantly closed her eyes, and attempted not to remember the foreboding image of the black, winged beast with blazing crimson irises that would undoubtedly be the center of her nightmares tonight.


End file.
